


FMI: Person of Interest (Main Cast)

by Zaniida



Series: Five Moments of Intimacy [4]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Childhood Surgery (see chp 2 note for details), Drabble Sequence, Experimental Style, FMI, FMNI, First Aid, Five Moments of Intimacy, Gen, Gender Identity, I hope that's the right tag, Intersex Character, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Past Child Abuse, Scars, Touch-Starved, Triple Drabble, compassion - Freeform, non-sexual nudity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 08:23:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14870220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/pseuds/Zaniida
Summary: Each character gets a full FMI rundown in a single scenario, with one other character.





	1. John Reese (with Fusco)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Triss_Hawkeye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triss_Hawkeye/gifts).



> I'll put each chapter's spoilery content warnings in the End Note.
> 
> As a challenge, I've limited myself as far as form. I was going to go with five Drabbles per chapter (one for each section), but Reese's fic kinda got out of control and needed more detail, so I'm accepting Double/Triple Drabbles as valid for my intent.
> 
> I'll separate, but not label, the individual FMI sections within a chapter. There is some overlap, but this is more to demonstrate the forms of intimacy in a more living, less focused environment, so expect a loss of precision.
> 
> Note: I have considered at some length whether "a flock of youngsters" should take a singular or plural verb. I have decided that since they don't make decisions as a group, but as a bunch of individuals, that in this case it's plural; therefore, this is not a typo and does not count toward my Typo Rewards.
> 
> And away we go!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reese gets sent with Fusco to give a lecture to a class of third-graders. This affects him on multiple levels.

When Captain Moreno sends them off to teach a class of third-graders about personal safety, Reese is like a storm cloud all the way there. Fusco puts up with it until Reese mutters something about pointless assignments detracting from ‘actual work.’

“Look, Sunshine,” Fusco retorts, “you may focus on which bad guys to put bullet holes in, but this is part of what we actually _do_. Solve problems before they get started. Promote safety and self-control. Teach kids who see a gun or a needle to _Stop -- Don’t touch it -- Go tell an adult._

“And -- _key point_ \-- encourage kids to see cops as _allies_ instead of enemies.”

“It’s a smokescreen,” Reese grumbles. “Cops aren’t ‘friends.’ They’re not on your side.”

Fusco grimaces. “Look, _most_ cops are just regular guys trying to follow the rules and do their job. Sure, some of ’em get on a power trip, and other ones _really_ go off the deep end. But it’s hard to keep order if people see us as villains, y’know?”

“So you play them up as _heroes_. Like how soldiers get portrayed as _noble_ ,” Reese mutters, face haggard, disgust tugging at his lips. “Draws in new meat. You go in thinking you might sacrifice your life to protect your country -- not realizing you’ll end up sacrificing your _soul_ to keep evil men in power. But, by then, you’re part of the machine; they’ve got their hooks in you and it’s too late to ever be what you were before.”

For a moment, there’s silence between them, like raising a toast to the young men they used to be.

Fusco rubs the back of his head. “Whatcha gonna do, though? Gotta have cops. _And_ soldiers. Gotta protect people who’ll never _understand_ what it’s like to be on this side of the gun.”

* * *

Once in class, Reese is better, at least on the surface; he’s no stranger to social masks. They discuss ‘body autonomy’ (a phrase Reese didn’t know before reading the lesson plan, but some of the kids are familiar with), the ethics of shoplifting, and how to safely ride the bus; Reese wonders, privately, how these three got into the same lesson.

The kids ask interesting questions, and Reese manages to sound like a friendly (if anxious) neighborhood cop, instead of an ex-assassin who has trouble restraining his more lethal impulses.

As they’re preparing to get out of there -- Fusco doesn’t miss how antsy Reese is getting, though he’s hiding it pretty well -- the teacher invites the kids to “give the officers a hug.”

About two thirds of the class take the opportunity to surround the two of them, mostly for hugs but also to touch their uniforms, try on the hats that Moreno insisted they wear today, and, in one case, punch Reese in the kidney (luckily not hard enough to do damage).

On the surface, it’s a pleasant exchange, building goodwill toward the police force. Maybe it’ll reduce vandalism, keep a few out of gangs when they’re older. Help some to speak up about being abused. Measuring the overall effect of various social programs is easier than pinning down exactly which factors are doing the most good. But Fusco likes to think that it’s important, showing kids that cops don’t have to be scary. Like teaching kids not to be afraid of firefighters, so that when their apartment’s on fire they won’t run and hide from the guy there to rescue them.

But Fusco notices Reese’s smile faltering, his eyes blinking a little more than is normal for him. Is he just imagining things, or does Reese look… lost?

* * *

“What _was_ that back there, anyway?” Fusco asks as he pulls into traffic. “You looked like some alien from a culture that never learned how to hug. Never been around that many kids before?”

When Reese stays silent, Fusco frowns. “This one of those CIA things? Don’t tell me you were fighting the impulse to attack those kids back there.” It’s half joking, but suddenly he’s got a chill down his back from the possibility that that’s _exactly_ what Reese was forced to do. “Should I try to get you out of assignments like this?” he asks, more worry in his voice than he meant to convey. “Or, like, do you need more chances to practice social interaction?”

He hadn’t meant to badger Reese, but now it’s like his mouth just won’t shut up about it, and he keeps spinning out awkward comments until finally Reese cuts him off with, “I was abused.”

He’s staring through the windshield, voice hoarse and entirely monotone. “Got adopted out of an abusive situation when I was three. Didn’t want touch for a _long_ time. My mom had sensory issues anyway… never tried to hug or kiss me, even after Dad got killed.”

“Jesus.”

“In school, it was punches and kicks and chokeholds -- asserting dominance, testing strength. How much you could take it. Then I got to the military, and it’s pragmatism: You touch each other when you need to, steer clear when you don’t.

“Finally got a girlfriend.” He smiles, and his voice shows affection. “Jessica. And I could touch her. That was… powerful. The first time I was allowed to enjoy being skin to skin.” He swallows. “And then I left her, first to protect her, and then because I was so damaged that I thought she’d be better off without me.”

* * *

Reese… doesn’t really talk about his past. At all. Little things come out, unexpectedly, in the midst of tense events -- mostly random skills and areas of knowledge. But it’s not enough to really get a handle on who Reese was prior to becoming _The Man in the Suit_.

So it takes a bit for Fusco to absorb this unexpected revelation.

“So you don’t…” Fusco begins, then considers his wording. “You’ve only ever been hugged by your girlfriend?”

Reese shakes his head. “Lots of people have hugged me. Usually after I save a life. Figured it was mostly adrenaline; danger does weird things to people.”

“And that doesn’t bother you as much?”

Reese rubs his face. “My body has been trained to see unexpected physical contact as a threat. And to respond to threats with quick and decisive action, sometimes before I can stop to think about it. Countering that impulse is… difficult.”

Fusco huffs. “I take it I shouldn’t get your attention by tapping you on the shoulder.”

“If you managed to walk up behind me without me realizing it, I’d _really_ be off my game.” A smile ghosts across Reese’s face, but only for a second.

Glad that he’s raised Lee with plenty of positive touch, Fusco considers what it must be like to grow up without it. To think of touch only as pain -- as a threat -- or sexual, or, if neither of those, then as a completely illogical reaction to stress.

To be completely off your guard when a flock of youngsters feel like giving you a hug.

Geez. Never thought he’d feel this sorry for _Reese_ , of all people. Actually worry about his emotional well-being.

Before he can think too much about it, he’s changing course, heading toward some deserted buildings he’s all too familiar with.

* * *

The alley’s secluded, deliberately blocking line of sight to any other part of the city. Perfect angles, no vantage points. It’s where they used to handle certain deals, back before HR went under.

When Fusco gets out of the car, Reese follows his lead, cautiously observing.

“Look,” Fusco says, turning to face him. “I’m only gonna offer this once; if you don’t want it, you say so, and we get in the car and get back to our job. And, either way, you don’t mention this to _anyone_.

“This ain’t romantic and it ain’t sexual. It’s not a threat, or some illogical reaction to stress. But, if it would help you to get a proper hug for once in your life… well, nobody’s watching.”

It takes an effort to stand there calmly, fighting off the urge to tense up as Reese’s face goes through tiny permutations of emotions, starting with confusion; the others, Fusco can only guess at: annoyance, fear, anger, longing, more confusion, discomfort, contempt -- a quick twitch that furrows the upper lip -- then sudden dismay, shame, anxiety.

“What do you want?” Reese asks, voice low, with that peculiar form of menace that he manages to convey more through implication than tone.

“I want a partner who’s psychologically stable. But, failing that, seems like it’d be better for both of us if you had more opportunities to deal with human touch. Make sure you don’t hurt some coworker or random person for doing what _most_ humans do without thinking.”

Reese continues to stare at him.

“It’s just an offer,” Fusco says, petulantly. “If you don’t want it, just get back in the car.”

  
  


They head back to the station, Fusco’s face still a little warm as his sides ache with the memory of one quick, and almost terrified, embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:** Reese mentions past child abuse, which I believe (without having verified) was implied in canon. He doesn't give details. He does give mild details about being bullied in school, getting into fights.


	2. Sameen Shaw (with Reese)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a case goes wrong, Reese helps Shaw with first aid, and something comes to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My fics, in general, exist separately from each other, in terms of how I portray the characters; I do have some favorite elements, but things established in one fic don't imply that that's how I see the character in all fics. Variety is enjoyable, and this was an interesting route to take for this project.

Reese manhandles her into the shower as she’s panting, blind; strips her down to her underwear, and then even more than that.

The water’s freezing, and she doesn’t ask why. He shoves her head under, tilts her face up into the stream. “Open.” She fights back pain and panic and obeys; his hand keeps her nose clear to breathe as the other hand soaps her down.

Twenty minutes, some of the most painful she’s ever known. She relies on his strength to keep her there after she’s lost her own. His hands must be freezing too, but he’s not complaining.

* * *

After a quick consult with a horrified Finch, they conclude that she’s not going to go blind, although her vision’s still quite fuzzy. Reese finds her some towels and leaves, briefly, only to return with t-shirts and jeans. Men’s, and not quite her size, but close enough.

She towels off as he wipes down the tub, neither of them bothered by the impropriety. But the shower stripped her body heat away; her hands are shaking so much that she can’t manage the zipper.

Reese zips her up gently, and then wraps dry towels about her shoulders and rubs her arms.

* * *

“I don’t feel strongly about scars,” she says. “Not proud. Not ashamed.”

Reese keeps on wiping down the room, expression unchanging. The house stinks of bleach -- not an attack, this time, but cleanup duty.

“The one on my hip… got that saving Cole. Used to be proud of it. Now that he’s gone, it’s just another part of me, like the rest.”

Reese grunts agreement; his ribs ache where Kara shot him, halfway around the world from where Jessica lay dying.

“Know what’s weird? Scars from before you’re old enough to remember,” she says, and he agrees with that, too.

* * *

As Shaw fills up the fireplace, she says, calmly, “I was born with a dick.”

Reese doesn’t react to that one, either.

“It was tiny. They figured it wasn’t a big deal.” One of the matches finally lights. “Some doc convinced them that it wasn’t healthy, being in the middle like that. So, surgery.”

As flames lick up the side of the sheets, Shaw frowns. “Never felt like a boy, y’know? But sometimes I wonder if I would have. If they hadn’t cut it off.”

On the way out, she adds, “Sometimes I don’t feel much like a girl, either.”

* * *

On the freeway home, she fiddles with the radio until it suddenly blares out a sequence of utter nonsense.

John’s surprised snort does not go unnoticed.

Frowning, Shaw listens… something about a guy in a kilt, pissing outdoors?

John’s grinning way too much for a song with this topic. And… “First prize? For _what?_ ”

“Don’t tempt me, Shaw. I _will_ sing it. Start to finish.”

Curiosity gets the better of her; John is soon belting out, in his best Scottish brogue, a cheery song about two girls sexually assaulting an unconscious drunk guy.

Shaw laughs more than she probably should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:** In case it's not clear, that was bleach that got splashed right into Shaw's eyes. Fic starts with first aid for this.
> 
> Mentions sexual-assignment surgery for a young child, and the gender-questioning this led to; conclusions left up in the air.
> 
> References a song (well known in some circles) that does indeed depict sexual assault (touching a drunk guy's junk), but plays it off as comedy and where no one gets hurt. I happen to find this song hilarious, but obviously the scenario's not hilarious IRL.
> 
> It's implied that someone in this house got killed, probably by our heroes. Most likely they weren't a nice person, and there probably wasn't a lot of choice, given the attack and the need for instant first aid.
> 
> Also, there's actually a causal thread to these sections, implied rather than stated. I'm not sure how obvious it is, to the attentive reader. Feel free to ask for clarification in the comments section, and to debate how well I pulled it off.


End file.
